


a hothouse flower

by yesterday



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, University
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 17:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8677192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday/pseuds/yesterday
Summary: Ushijima Wakatoshi has a green thumb. The first time Ushijima had brought a house plant home, Oikawa had thought it was a cute, if slightly out of character gesture. The second time Ushijima brought another plant home (some kind of orchid, the arc of the stem long and graceful) home, Oikawa figured that maybe Ushijima was trying to cultivate a sense of aesthetic. Did Ushiwaka-chan believe in feng-shui? Was the apartment’s off?The third time, as Ushijima shouldered his way into the apartment with an armful of greenery, Oikawa realised that this was going to be a problem.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astronomically](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astronomically/gifts).



> HAPPY EARLY BIRTHDAY NAT, THE WORST FRIEND IN THE WORLD, look at what i finally finished.

Ushijima Wakatoshi has a green thumb. 

The first time Ushijima had brought a house plant home, Oikawa had thought it was a cute, if slightly out of character gesture. 

The second time Ushijima brought _another_ plant home (some kind of orchid, the arc of the stem long and graceful) home, Oikawa figured that maybe Ushijima was trying to cultivate a sense of aesthetic. Did Ushiwaka-chan believe in feng-shui? Was the apartment’s off?

The third time, as Ushijima shouldered his way into the apartment with an armful of greenery, Oikawa realised that this was going to be a problem. 

“Ushiwaka-chan,” Oikawa says one day from the small living room of their shared apartment, where he’s nestled deep beneath the kotatsu and trying to write a paper on his laptop when he hears the door open. “No more plants, I’m serious! Turn right back around, right now, if you have another one.”

Their hallways are lined with plants, the ferns with their gentle, waving fronds constantly brushing Oikawa’s shins as he passes by them. Rows of juicy succulents crowd the ivory entry table where Oikawa leaves his keys, and he has had to retrieve them from a pot on more than one occasion. Navigating the kitchen is nearly impossible, and he’s jostled out of space, taken to setting the dirty dishes on the counter beside the sink precariously for care of the miniature herb garden in their neat, boxy planters. In the washroom, the orchid resides in full bloom on the window ledge, vying for space with Oikawa’s moisturiser and hair products, and he’d told Ushiwaka that this was _his_ bathroom, couldn’t he put the damn thing in his own? and Ushiwaka had only said something about the humidity being good for it, and the light optimal. 

His sole refuge now is his bedroom. Oikawa fears for the plant-free sanctity of it. 

“It’s a small one,” Ushijima says from the genkan after a pause.

Tearing his eyes away from the laptop and adjusting his glasses, Oikawa shouts back, “I don’t care how big it is, I’ve had enough!”

“I’m the one who takes care of them,” Ushijima says, now in Oikawa’s line of sight. He’s holding-- it isn’t even a plant this time, but a tiny bouquet of pale yellow flowers, delicate sprays of baby’s breath surrounding the blooms. 

“So? I’m allergic,” Oikawa lies, sniffing dramatically. 

Ushijima is already pulling a spare vase out from beneath the kitchen sink, his fingers brushing over the mint plant before he turns the water on. The flowers are quaintly pretty, bunched together by the slender neck of the vase. Oikawa allows himself a second to grudgingly admire them, and ignore how Ushijima’s eyebrows draw together in a frown. “You haven’t displayed any symptoms of an allergic reaction.” 

“You’re going to regret saying that when I collapse from anaphylactic shock,” Oikawa says. “Where’s your phone? Get ready to call an ambulance for me!” 

“They’re camellias,” Ushijima says, leaning over to set the flowers on the kotatsu. 

“I didn’t ask what they were.” Wrinkling his nose, Oikawa goes back to his essay. After a moment of silence, there’s a soft rustle of fabric, and Ushijima vanishes down the hallway into his room. 

Oikawa glances up, mouth open to berate Ushijima for leaving them here, on top of his notes, when his eyes fall on the vase. Under the weak winter sunlight streaming in through the veranda, the flowers are incandescent.  
  
  
  
  
  
A week and a half later, after the camellias have wilted and vanished from the apartment, and three more potted plants (a cherry tomato vine, aloe vera with its spiky leaves sticking in every direction, and a grey-blue cluster of lavender) take its place, Ushijima joins Oikawa beneath the kotatsu. 

Oikawa, languid and half-asleep and lying flat out on his back with nearly the entirety of his body tucked beneath the heavy quilt, is too preoccupied to protest to the invasion of his space. 

Him and Ushiwaka, they’ve long since struck up a faltering sort of truce ever since they ended up roommates. The living room is neutral territory, and so is the hall, and the kitchen. They both have their own bathrooms, and separate bedrooms. It’s worked well-- until the plants happened, and lately, Oikawa has been thinking that they need to renegotiate the terms of their roommate agreement. Ushijima tends to stay politely out of Oikawa’s way otherwise.

(There is a steadily growing demarcation in Oikawa’s life: before the reign of plant terror, and after.)

It’s cold today, however, and Oikawa is engrossed enough by his NASA article that he’s willing to share, provided Ushijima doesn’t jostle him. 

What he does have a complaint to voice about is the new addition to the Ushijima’s possible quarter-life crisis collection of greenery. 

“Were you even listening to me when I said not to get any more plants?” Oikawa says, sitting up and pulling his cup of tea towards him protectively, like a leaf will fall into it if he isn’t careful. 

“I was,” Ushijima says. A bunch of daffodils, miniature and sunshine gold are planted in a low, shallow, jade green dish, resting squarely in front of Oikawa. 

“Then what’s with this?”

“I thought you’d like them.” 

As a matter of fact, Oikawa does like them. They’re cheerful and offensively yellow unlike the drizzly, grey winter outdoors. Of course, he would also rather die before admitting this to Ushijima, so instead he scrunches his nose up and says instead, “I don’t believe in greenhouse flowers. Those are out of season, aren’t they?”

“Daffodils can bloom from late winter to early spring,” Ushijima says, carefully diplomatic. 

“Are you going to quit volleyball and take up gardening?” asks Oikawa, torn between delight and horror at the idea. 

“I’m not,” Ushijima starts, and stops. “I’m not.”

“This is some kind of school stress related symptom, isn’t it?” Oikawa says, full of faux sympathy. “Ushiwaka-chan, you know there’s resources on campus to help you.” 

“My grade point average is perfect, why would I be under duress?” Ushijima is looking at him, eyes intent and solemn. 

“Rub it in my face, won’t you?” Reluctantly sliding out from beneath the warmth of the kotatsu, Oikawa stretches and throws one last warning at Ushijima. “I’m visiting my family this weekend. I’m serious about the plant ban, Ushiwaka-chan. There better not be more when I get back!” 

Ushijima says nothing. He’s glowering at the daffodils as though personally offended by them. Oikawa doesn’t get him, he really doesn’t. 

“Don’t miss me too much,” he says breezily, before leaving Ushijima to his thoughts.  
  
  
  
  
  
The thing is, Oikawa doesn’t hate Ushijima anymore. Much. Oh, the sting of it flared up every so often, the memories of losing to Shiratorizawa always leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. But it’s become an old hurt, scabbed over and healed imperfectly. A reminder of his past failures. 

Oikawa chooses to overcome it by vowing to become better than he’s ever been, by never letting Ushijima get one up on him again-- which is easy, considering, well. In the end, he got what he wanted, didn’t he? 

They’re playing on the same team now, in college. Sometimes Oikawa even sets up a perfect toss for Ushiwaka-chan during practice, if he’s feeling generous. 

Sometimes they linger in the gym long after practice is over, the relentless smack of each serve they deal driving into the glossy hardwood floor of the gym. Sometimes Ushijima will turn to Oikawa, nudges the volleyball cart towards him and Oikawa picks one up, spinning it in his hands. 

“Toss for me,” Ushijima says instead of asking. 

Oikawa’s bristle is automatic, and he chucks the ball at Ushijima without a care, Ushijima catching it at chest level and staring down at it. 

“Oikawa.” 

“Ushiwaka-chan.” 

“Say please.” Oikawa picks up another ball, twirling it on his index finger just because he can. He pointedly doesn’t look at Ushijima. 

“Please toss for me, Oikawa.” 

Always so obedient. 

The feeling of the ball leaving his fingertips is weightless, and the slap of it hitting Ushijima’s hands solid.  
  
  
  
  
  
“Welcome back.”

Oikawa yelps and drops his glass; Ushijima catches it, setting it on the counter. 

“Don’t sneak up on people like that!” 

“Why do you have the lights turned off?” Ushijima asks, instead of apologising. 

“Because if this place has turned into a garden over the weekend, I can’t deal with it until I’ve had my beauty sleep. What are you doing, skulking around in the dark in the middle of the night?” Oikawa says. 

“I heard you come in.” Reaching over to the backsplash, Ushijima flicks on the overhead light above the sink, the soft radiance of it seeping over them. The herbs lining the counter are fragrant and minty, but as far as Oikawa can tell, they’re the usual spread that’s been there all along. Oikawa picks his glass back up and refills it, taking a sip. 

“Well then,” he says finally, “I’m back.” Ushiwaka is silent, studying Oikawa’s face under the dim light. Oikawa’s used to being stared at, but something about the weight of Ushijima’s stare makes him squirm. He doesn’t like it, so he barks out, “I know I’m very good looking, but staring is rude, Ushiwaka-chan.”

“It was quiet without you,” Ushijima finally says. 

“I hope you didn’t start talking to yourself,” Oikawa says, trying to edge around Ushijima and away from him. 

No luck. Ushijima takes a step closer, and raise his eyebrows. “Why would I?”

“Don’t ask me,” Oikawa says. “I don’t do it.” 

“But you talk a lot,” Ushijima says. 

“I talk a lot,” Oikawa repeats faintly. “ _I_ talk a lot,” he says again because Ushiwaka-chan keeps looking at him, and he doesn’t know what to make of the expression on his face.

“I like it.”

“You _like_ it.”

“That’s what I said.” Ushijima frowns, forehead creased in a way that made Oikawa want to tell him he’d get wrinkles if he did it too often. He thinks, viciously, that Ushijima rather deserves them, so he doesn’t say a word. But where Oikawa stays quiet for once, Ushijima ends up talking in his stead. “I have something for you.” 

“What?” Oikawa blinks. 

From behind the mess of greenery by the sink, Ushijima rummages around and produces a tiny pot, a succulent nestled in it like a sunburst. Both the plant and the pot are dwarfed in his palm. Oikawa stares down at it, and then looks back at Ushijima. 

“I thought I told you to stop bringing home plants,” Oikawa says, and because he can’t resist, “Why a succulent?” 

“Tendou said it suited you,” Ushijima says like a question. 

It takes Oikawa a moment to place him, and he snaps his fingers. “Oh, your teammate that nobody liked.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Tendou.” 

“Well, Iwa-chan and everyone else always thought he was annoying.” A horrible thought occurs to Oikawa immediately after. “You asked _him_ for advice? Wait, you still keep in touch with him, Ushiwaka-chan? That’s almost sweet.”

“Take it,” Ushijima says, holding it out insistently. 

“What if I don’t want it?” The succulent is small and perfectly symmetrical, the lush petals of it rounding into points on each one. It’s almost exactly the same shade of pale blue as Aobajousai’s, but a touch more green. The pot it’s in is white. Oikawa wonders if Ushijima picked it out on purpose. 

“It’s a gift.” There’s a familiar furrow between Ushijima’s brows now, a stormcloud brewing. 

“What did Tendou say, exactly?” Oikawa asks. 

“It’s… juicy?” Ushijima answers tentatively, like he doesn’t understand it, but went with it anyway. 

The laugh tears itself out of him, startled air punched out of his lungs. Oikawa laughs for a good thirty seconds before he flaps his hands at Ushijima, and takes a step closer to him. “So? Do you think I’m juicy, Ushiwaka-chan?” 

Ushijima’s hand, clenched around the flowerpot, is white knuckled. His eyes flick down to Oikawa’s mouth, but his voice is formal when he speaks. “I’ve always admired you, Oikawa.” 

Because Oikawa’s been treated to his fair share of confessions over the years, and because he has an undeniable cruel streak in him, especially when it comes to Ushijima Wakatoshi, he smiles and curls his hand around the succulent, fingers sliding over Ushijima’s palm. “Well, that isn’t really an answer, but I’ll let you off just this once.” Ushijima seems to be frozen in place, so Oikawa continues. “I’ll keep this one, since it’s a gift, but I’m being extra, super serious here. No more plants. Not one!” 

“Oikawa,” Ushijima starts, only to be stopped by Oikawa shaking his head and snatching the plant from him.

“Wow, I didn’t notice the time! It’s late, and I need my beauty sleep. Traveling’s the worst, honestly. Don’t stay up too late, Ushiwaka-chan.” 

When he turns tail and walks briskly to his room, Oikawa tells himself he isn’t running away. He’s making a tactical retreat. 

The door clicks shut behind him and Oikawa sinks down against it, breath escaping him in one loud _whoosh_. He looks down at the succulent in his hands, the pot still warm from where Ushijima held it. Oikawa wouldn’t know how to keep a plant alive if his life depended on it. No, if the game match of a tournament depended on it. (--maybe he would figure it out, for that.)

Leaning his head back against the door, Oikawa tries to pretend that he doesn’t hear Ushijima’s measured footsteps stopping in front of his room, before continuing down the hall. 

He hates him, he really does.

**Author's Note:**

> haha sorry they don't even kiss
> 
> some of the flower meanings can be found via googling hanakotoba!


End file.
